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KINKTOBER DAY 3
Oct. 7th, 2017 01:39 amA 221B drabble per day (whether it’s a Sherlockian fandom or not), drawn from the kinktober kink list!
Day 1: 1. Spanking | Sleepy Sex | Aphrodisiacs
A Boon to Diplomacy (The Hobbit, Bilbo/Thorin/Thranduil/Bard)
Day 2: 2. Dirty talk | Watersports | Forniphilia (Human Furniture)
A Firm Footing (Sherlock, Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes)
Day 3: 3. Public | Biting | Sthenolagnia (Strength/Muscles)
Chelicerae (The Silmarillion)
Thuringwethil kept a safe distance from the Mother of Darkness, though stirred was she by the scent of blood and susurration of spiked legs on spun silk. Her leathern wings arched above her head, and she expected to scrape a stone ceiling that was not there. For so thorough and deep was the Unlight that the Huntress’s victims perceived that they were to die in a cave, although in truth the open sky was above them, Varda’s stars overcome by the Gloomweaver’s work.
It was safest to watch her feed upon the first wanderers until they grew shriveled. Then Thuringwethil could slide through the shadows and gaze upon the intricate workings of Ungoliant’s jaws as they pierced and devoured and drained her prey’s life blood, replacing it with her viscous venom. Thuringwethil licked her own fangs in sympathetic lust.
“Draw close, if you dare. Eight eyes I have - I see you.”
Thuringwethil shivered at the voice. It could not have come from that mouth, occupied as it was in draining. Husks of Orcs, bones, fallen creatures of all descriptions, ichor spilled and scented. She let out a little moan. Ungoliant would have every right to slay her had she come to steal food, but she had not. Drinker of life’s-wine, she knelt down before her deity to offer her own blood.
Day 1: 1. Spanking | Sleepy Sex | Aphrodisiacs
A Boon to Diplomacy (The Hobbit, Bilbo/Thorin/Thranduil/Bard)
Day 2: 2. Dirty talk | Watersports | Forniphilia (Human Furniture)
A Firm Footing (Sherlock, Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes)
Day 3: 3. Public | Biting | Sthenolagnia (Strength/Muscles)
Chelicerae (The Silmarillion)
Thuringwethil kept a safe distance from the Mother of Darkness, though stirred was she by the scent of blood and susurration of spiked legs on spun silk. Her leathern wings arched above her head, and she expected to scrape a stone ceiling that was not there. For so thorough and deep was the Unlight that the Huntress’s victims perceived that they were to die in a cave, although in truth the open sky was above them, Varda’s stars overcome by the Gloomweaver’s work.
It was safest to watch her feed upon the first wanderers until they grew shriveled. Then Thuringwethil could slide through the shadows and gaze upon the intricate workings of Ungoliant’s jaws as they pierced and devoured and drained her prey’s life blood, replacing it with her viscous venom. Thuringwethil licked her own fangs in sympathetic lust.
“Draw close, if you dare. Eight eyes I have - I see you.”
Thuringwethil shivered at the voice. It could not have come from that mouth, occupied as it was in draining. Husks of Orcs, bones, fallen creatures of all descriptions, ichor spilled and scented. She let out a little moan. Ungoliant would have every right to slay her had she come to steal food, but she had not. Drinker of life’s-wine, she knelt down before her deity to offer her own blood.
